Chuck pulled out a scope camera. Leo watched the screen as the little lens traveled into the dark throat of his apartment’s plumbing. At first, it was just murky water. Then the camera rounded a bend and showed him the truth.
“Deal.”
Leo looked at the toilet. It sat there, white and serene, like a sleeping bomb. He thought about calling the landlord anyway. He thought about calling his dad. He thought about calling his ex-girlfriend, who had warned him about this apartment—“Leo, the baseboards smell like sadness”—and whom he had dismissed as paranoid. cost to unclog toilet
But the cost—the real cost—had just dropped from twelve thousand dollars to a single, clean, negotiable zero. Chuck pulled out a scope camera
“A sag. Old building. The pipe drops a little right after the toilet flange. Water sits there. And this—” he held up the wipe Leo had confessed to, “—this is just the spark. The real fire is further down.” Then the camera rounded a bend and showed him the truth
“I’m telling you to do the math,” Chuck said. “A thousand dollars or twelve thousand. Also, I was never here. And you never saw a root ball.”